AS I WRITE THIS I am enjoying the view of an Andalucian mountain range and sipping on a lovely glass of rioja from my rented apartment in the lovely town of Nerja. 

The rioja is the cheapest I could find in the nearest supermarket and at less than €3 a bottle is reason enough to turn to drink. If nothing else it helps me forget the cost-of-living crisis back home.

Whenever I go away on holiday I do so with high expectations of how much I will get done in my fortnight away. After all, I will be well-rested and have so much free time to spare that I will be able to devour all the books I have had piled up since last summer and maybe even write a feature for this esteemed organ of the working class. 

So sure of all the time I would have, I even went so far as to ask for book recommendations from a comrade before I left. This, of course, has not — and never does — come to pass. 

Long meals in restaurants with family and relaxed evenings on the balcony with the aforementioned rioja inevitably take precedence.

This academic year has been an exhausting one. The government and Ofsted have, as always, been moving the goalposts of what is expected from schools leading to rewrites of the curriculum and marking policies and all the other bureaucratic nonsense that attends this. Add to this the first large-scale industrial action in NEU history and, all in all, I’ve been in need of a rest.

Holiday-hunting was tricky this year. Our English summer took place over a long weekend in June this year and skipped straight to what felt like a particularly soggy autumn. Meanwhile most of Europe seemed to be on fire. The joys of climate change. 

We settled on Nerja for the perhaps fifth time in recent years as it hasn’t rained here in months and was yet to be aflame though the locals panic at the slight whiff of smoke.

Whenever I visit a place I like to see if I can search out its revolutionary history. Unfortunately here in Nerja it isn’t as pronounced as it is in other parts of Spain. 

I did though find out that Federico Garcia Lorca had a summer house in the town. I paid a visit to where I believe it is on a fashionable street named Calle Carabeo not far from the main tourist attraction of the town, the Balcon of Europe.

Lorca was one of the most prominent victims of the fascist Franco regimes and the reason for his assassination remained shrouded in mystery for a long time. It wasn’t until 29 years after his death that Granada police were asked to write a report.

As long-suspected it emerged that Lorca was persecuted for his being a “socialist and a freemason,” who was rumoured to partake in “homosexual and abnormal practices.”

Given the profile of Lorca — his poems, I am told, are taught in every Spanish school — you would assume that there would be a museum on the site or perhaps a statue or even a plaque. Alas there was none. 

There is, though, a statue to a former king and to the star of a much-loved soap opera set in the town. If any Spanish comrades have any ideas about how we can set this right then get in touch.

I revisited one of my favourite places here, though. In a small back street, not far from the bus station, you can find a fantastic little bar named Los Bilbainos but colloquially known as The Commie Bar. 

Not much to look at from the outside, the bar got its name due to the various pieces of left-wing memorabilia that festoon the walls. Photos of Che Guevara, pictures of International Brigadiers, even an old copy of Pravda.

The bar serves reasonably priced beer and good tapas. A far cry from the over priced tourist traps further into the town centre. 

I had the chorizo. Orwell described this as “bright red sausage that tastes of soap and gives you diarrhoea.” As with many things, Orwell was wrong. It was delicious.

I must admit I ignored all of the book suggestions (though the one about walking in Norfolk sounded like a good read) — instead I have been enjoying Jon Lee Anderson’s biography of Che Guevara. 

Everyone knows roughly the story of the legendary Che. From his days as an Argentinian medical student to guerilla fighter, but the book seems to be meticulously researched using Cuban archives.

The book — which many will have already read — includes lots of interesting anecdotes such as how Ernesto bought a load of shoes wholesale which turned out to be odd. This led him to search out the one-legged in Buenos Aires before giving up and wearing odd shoes.

One interesting section is the reference to the planned book of Guevara’s, looking at the role of a doctor in Latin America and especially the revolutionary role. 

The full text, is a few paragraphs long and in draft form, was only published long after his death is available in another book — The Awakening of Latin America.

I have been reading this with interest and considering what lessons a teacher in a very different part of the world (and in a very different time) may draw from it. 

Guevara, for example, emphasises the importance of not appearing to be “Red” as this could end your career. This is something teachers need to be ever-watchful of and of which I have written previously.

Ernesto goes on to say that a doctor would have to confront the established authorities with regard to funding, for example. Something trade unionists in Britain know well. That should also at the same time ensure that they are fulfilling their obligations with “complete dedication,” something that as educators we can also agree with. 

“For this,” he continues, “is what will make their ideas triumph over the inconsistent, mercenary activities of their individualistic colleagues.”

In a time where education seems to be captivated with small cliques of the ever-online “edutwitter” sect whose main purpose is self-promotion — or worse — we can also learn from El Che. 

“Revolutionary doctors [or educators] should always remember that it is their duty to attack whatever problems adversely affect the people, who are the only ones they should serve.”